


Such Great Deeds

by Himring



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cross-cultural, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Noldor - Freeform, Sindar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:38:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1921851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himring/pseuds/Himring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A friendship fic featuring Beleg and Fingon, from the Mereth Aderthad to the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad.<br/>With various guest appearances and a great deal of conversation on a number of different subjects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At Ivrin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havisham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/gifts).



> This story is set in the same 'verse as my Maedhros saga, but can for the most part be read independently.  
> (Fingon/Maedhros implied only)
> 
> At long last completed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Officially, it seems, Beleg was not among the emissaries that Elu Thingol sent to the Feast of Reuniting.  
> But perhaps he was there, anyway, briefly...

It was Fingon who ran Mereth Aderthad, Beleg found out. That is, of course it was his father Fingolfin who had convened the meeting of the Noldor and invited an embassy from Doriath, but it was his son Fingon who was supervising the actual setting up of the camp and all the other practical issues involved.

Fingon was delighted to see Mablung and Daeron and also to see Beleg, which came as a bit of surprise. Considering the size of the camp and the continuous stream of guests that were arriving just before the commencement of the Feast, all of which he would have had to sort out already, Beleg had not expected Fingon to greet someone like him as a long-lost brother. The warmth of Fingon's greeting soothed his reservations about the set-up a little, for he had arrived at Ivrin inclined to be somewhat prickly. He did not entirely appreciate being treated as a guest in a locality in which he had once freely roamed. There was a time when he had considered Ivrin very much his own country.

Even as Beleg felt some of his prejudices against Noldorin interlopers melt a little, he could not help feeling a little sceptical as he observed Fingon’s bright smile and sparkling eyes and listened to a volley of offers of assistance and explanations. Could this much enthusiasm be genuine? Would Fingon have received any taciturn stranger in this manner or was he diplomatically laying on a cordial reception for the particular benefit of the guests from Doriath?

But just as he asked himself that question, Fingon’s gaze veered away from his face, as if he had suddenly glimpsed someone over his shoulder, and for a split second Beleg saw just how much joy Fingon’s face was really capable of expressing—only for that joy to be immediately replaced by an equally intense expression of distress, before Fingon quickly recovered himself and devoted all his attention to Beleg again. So fascinated had Beleg been by this quicksilver display of emotion that he remembered too late that Elu would probably expect him to take an interest in the question of who or what was capable of evoking such feelings in Fingolfin’s son. By the time he managed a discreet look, all he saw was a flash of red disappearing in the crowd between the tents. He was not ungrateful; for himself, he had not really wanted to know. Private affairs should be allowed to remain private.

However, as it turned out, there was not that much of a riddle to solve here. That same evening, Mablung and Daeron were openly discussing among themselves the presence of the two elder sons of Feanor, who had arrived at Ivrin from the Marches one day previously, the daring rescue of Maedhros from Thangorodrim by Fingon and the unexplained tensions among the Princes of the Noldor. Beleg, listening closely, did not comment. He had heard of Maedhros, of course, some good things, some less so.

That night, lying awake, he considered the strength of those fleeting emotions he had seen crossing Fingon’s face. Did he himself feel that strongly about anyone? He had considerable affection for Mablung, he thought, although Mablung was so much younger and besides their friendship had grown up in the somewhat casual manner of comrades who were often thrown together by shared preferences. He had affection and abiding loyalty for Elu—but those were more complicated emotions, for he remembered Elu from before the time when he had called himself king and Elu also remembered this.  He had accepted Elu’s kingship as a political necessity just as he had accepted the Girdle of Melian as a military necessity—although he sometimes seemed to feel the Girdle stretching across his mind almost as tightly as it cut across the landscape of Beleriand, creating an inside and an outside where none had been before, chafing, chafing... Had he felt more strongly about Elu and Mablung and the others before the Girdle had encircled Doriath? Or was it just that he was old and past caring quite so strongly about anyone? And if so, was that not maybe a good thing?

These thoughts unsettled him, so that, finding himself alone with Mablung after breakfast the next morning, he said quite curtly: ‘I’ll be going then.’

Mablung raised his eyebrows. ‘You are sticking with the original plan, then?  I thought you might have changed your mind when you didn’t mention to Fingon that you were planning to leave again so soon.’  

He hesitated for a moment. Then he continued: ‘It would make sense to stay on just a bit, I think. Annael is not expecting you on any particular day. The Feast has not even started yet; when it has, it will go on for weeks.  And the Noldor are not so bad, really, don’t you think? I feel I could get used to them, if I give myself the chance. Here at Ivrin they seem more natural, less out of place, somehow, than the children of Finarfin did in Menegroth.  Perhaps, because Angrod and Artanis are close kin to Thingol, we wanted them to be more like us than was reasonable to expect?’

Beleg shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I don’t find myself minding the Noldor nearly as much as I thought’, he admitted. ‘It’s just…the whole thing, really…’

Mablung looked a little puzzled. Then he gave a sympathetic chuckle. ‘It’s the crowd, Beleg, isn’t it? It’s too much like Menegroth for your liking, is my guess. Even though this assembly is under the open sky…’

He had the right of it, of course. It was not, Beleg told himself, that he disliked people, in moderately-sized groups, going about their business, but he never had been one for cities—and what was fast growing up all around Ivrin was nothing less than a city of tents.  He said farewell to Mablung and to Daeron, who showed no sign of surprise, and quietly left—with a minimum of fuss, as he thought.

He was already some distance from Ivrin when he heard someone coming up behind him, a single Noldo by the sound of it. Instantly, his hands went to his bow and quiver. Curses, no!  He had no business provoking an incident, least of all here! He restrained himself, contenting himself with allowing his right hand to hover near the hilt of his dagger.

It was Fingon himself, who emerged from the bushes, gold-threaded braids and all, as if Fingolfin’s son had nothing better to do than trail absconding guests. Beleg had not expected that. He took away his hand from the dagger.

‘Beleg,’ said Fingon, a little breathlessly, and then more formally: ‘Beleg Cuthalion, it was reported to me that you had been seen leaving the camp as if you meant instantly to return to Doriath. You made no mention of such a plan to me yesterday. Has anyone at Ivrin offended you, since we spoke, or have my people done anything to displease you in any way? If so, please let me know and turn back with me so that I can make amends. I would not have it said that the Noldor offered annoyance to guests or flawed hospitality!’

Beleg was astounded and not a little embarrassed.

‘No’, he said. ‘Nobody has offended me. And it is Mablung and Daeron who are Thingol’s emissaries—perhaps we had not made that clear enough yesterday? They are the official delegation from Doriath—I just accompanied them here…’

Of course, the Noldor had probably been expecting a slightly larger delegation, he thought. He was not sure he had fully realized the potential insult when they set out from Doriath. In Menegroth, it had all seemed reasonable. Why should all the best and the greatest of the Iathrim come running at the invitation of the Noldor? Daeron as chief lore-master and Mablung to represent the military side—the presence of these two had seemed sufficient acknowledgement. Cirdan had looked displeased, though, yesterday. Perhaps Elu had ignored his counsel in the matter…

‘Oh no, you made it quite clear, all three of you!’ said Fingon. ‘Only, I imagined that if you had accompanied Mablung and Daeron out of friendship—or perhaps come along out of simple curiosity…? Whatever the reason, I did not think it likely that, having come all this way, you could have been planning to leave again so soon! But it seems I was wrong? Unless… Are you sure we have done nothing to displease you? But perhaps you have another private errand somewhere close by? I confess that had not occurred to me before—but there must be those among your people dwelling in the foothills who are known to you?’

‘I assure you, Fingolfinion,’ said Beleg, more formally, ‘that none of your kin have done anything to displease me, either today or yesterday. It is, as you say, a private errand that takes me away…’

‘Ah,’ said Fingon, apparently both relieved and disappointed. ‘I had looked forward to getting to know you in the coming days but there will be another occasion to do so, I hope… I must apologize, then, for unconscionably delaying you in that errand of yours. But, before you go, would you permit me to ask you…? You are _that Beleg Cuthalion_ , are you not?’

Beleg blinked. As far as he knew, there had only ever been one of him. But neither could he imagine any reason why he should be _that Beleg Cuthalion_ to a prince of the Noldor. He did not usually sport a demonstrative among outsiders, surely?

Fingon almost blushed. ‘You see you used to be a childhood hero of mine’, he said. ‘My grandfather told me stories about you when I was very young. The great scout of the Lindar!’ he said, going a little misty-eyed. ‘All those exciting adventures on the long march from Cuivienen…’

His grandfather… Finwe! Why was it so difficult to remember that these exotic flame-eyed beings were descendants of Finwe, Elu’s good friend and his also, a long time ago? He kept forgetting. And still nobody, as far as he knew, had explained the exact circumstances under which Finwe had died—in Valinor, supposedly the safest of all places!

‘Used to?’ he repeated, feeling rather stupid. Angrod, Fingon’s cousin, had told him nothing about being anyone’s childhood hero, when they met in Doriath. But it stood to reason that he could not have been everyone’s hero, in Valinor, in Tirion, even if he had been Fingon’s.

It seemed he had unintentionally jolted Fingon back to the present. ‘Yes, well’, he said unhappily. ‘I suppose I admire you even more now. Now that I have a much better idea what a journey like that from Cuivienen entails…’

He gave Beleg a wide-eyed, distressed look. At that moment, it became obvious to Beleg that Fingon the sincere, Fingon the honest, was concealing something and that it was probably something important, something Elu would want to know—maybe even something that would fan Elu’s smouldering distrust of the arrivals to a blazing flame.

Beleg could not say why it produced precisely the opposite reaction in him. Elu would not have approved, he was sure—but looking into Fingon’s troubled eyes, he was suddenly weary of all subterfuge. It had never been his strong point. Fooling orcs and emissaries of Morgoth in the woods was one thing, speaking honeyed deceit in the council hall quite another.

‘The errand I am on is Thingol’s’, he said bluntly. ‘I am to cross the mountains into Hithlum and speak with Annael.’

He watched those strong emotions play across Fingon’s face as he worked out the implications—why Beleg had left Ivrin in the opposite direction, as if he meant to return to Doriath rather than continue on northwards--that Annael might have had other reasons for sending his brothers and son to Ivrin and remaining behind in Mithrim while the attention of the Noldor was elsewhere than the official one, that his wife was expecting her second child…

‘Will you give me a token, son of Fingolfin, to say that I go with your knowledge if I should encounter a Noldo on the way who chooses to question my business?’ Beleg asked. No beating about the bush now.

They stood for a moment, measuring each other look for look. Fingon’s hands went up to his shoulder, to the large brooch that held his cloak together instead of a clasp. He hesitated.

‘You realize that whatever I myself decide, I shall have to speak to my father of this and he may not uphold my judgement?’ he asked.

‘I will take that risk’, said Beleg.

Fingon unfastened the brooch, caught his cloak across his arm and held the brooch out to Beleg. The device on it was a wreath of silver flame, set with splinters of sapphire—a flamboyant Noldorin thing—and Beleg felt a momentary impulse to ask for something less showy instead, which he quashed, recognizing that the brooch was precisely what he had asked for and would serve him well, far better than if Fingon had sat down on the moss and started penning a letter to whom it might concern.

‘I hope and trust’, said Fingon earnestly, ‘that Annael will have mostly good things to say about us!’

‘May it be so’, said Beleg. He took the brooch.

‘We will meet again’, he said to Fingon, a little awkwardly.

‘We shall’, said Fingon, smiling a little.

‘There will be time then to speak about the march from Cuivienen and other things,’ said Beleg.

He turned openly now in the direction of the path that led up among the slopes of Amon Darthir and beyond that into Hithlum. Fingon made no further attempt to delay him. For a while, Beleg listened over his shoulder for possible signs of pursuit, but it seemed Fingolfin had decided to uphold his son’s judgement. Nobody else followed him.

He climbed the mountain path, breathing more freely, glad for the moment to have escaped all those complications and entanglements below and be himself, by himself, among the wilderness and the weather where he belonged. And yet, as he followed the twisting and turning of the path, chance brought him to a vantage point, a spot that offered him an excellent view of the encampment he had left. Sunlight was laughing on the pools of Ivrin. The bright proliferation of tents that he had found so oppressive as long as he was among them looked tiny at this distance, like the scattered toys of a child, playful and innocent.

Something about it smote his heart. It was a mistake not to have stayed longer, perhaps. He imagined Fingon talking to Mablung. They would get on well, he was sure; they would get on just as well without him. There would be time to take up that conversation again.

Beleg crossed the Ered Wethrin by the high passes and descended into Dor-lomin. Passing north towards Mithrim, he found Annael and went to and fro among the Grey Elves of the North, observing and asking questions. The Noldor who had remained in the north made no move to hinder his passing.

Beleg returned to Doriath and reported that the northern Sindar had mostly good things to say about the rule of the Noldor. Beleg was well pleased, Elu Thingol rather less so. And there the matter rested.


	2. Eithel Sirion (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beleg and Mablung arrive in Barad Eithel in order to join Fingon's army. They are late arrivals, trying to find their feet and assess the situation.  
> Features a short appearance by Cirdan.

‘Elu Thingol generously gave us leave to come,’ said Mablung smoothly, ‘seeing that we regretted having no part in such great deeds.’

The face of the High King of the Noldor went blank for a moment.

‘He’s learned to conceal his emotions,’ thought Beleg, half relieved, half regretfully.

Then Fingon smiled and, whatever thought had just passed through his mind, his smile was still as warm as it had once been at the time of the Mereth Aderthad.

‘And glad we shall be to have the heroes of the Battle of Brethil fighting on our side,’ he proclaimed, ‘for tidings of the deeds done at the Crossings of Teiglin have reached our ears and your reputation has gone before you. You dealt the forces of Angband a grievous blow there! We rejoice that you are willing to strike at the Dark Foe again on our behalf!’

He stepped forward and down off the dais, having thus taught the assembled Eldar and Edain what to think of the new arrivals from Doriath. Some were hastily banishing expressions of deep disappointment from their faces, Beleg saw. But Fingon Fingolfinion came towards them, hands outstretched.

‘Welcome, Mablung,’ he said, simply. ‘Welcome, Beleg.’

Almost, thought Beleg, as if they were not seeing each other face-to-face for the first time since they had met at the Mereth Aderthad.

  
***

  
Cirdan had come and gone.

Having spent several hours closeted with Fingon in private conversation in the afternoon, he also made time to talk privately to Mablung and Beleg. It was late and he was due to leave again the next day. As he entered the quarters they had been given, he dismissed his two Falathren companions. At first he rejected the beaker of dry white wine Beleg offered him, courtesy of Fingon’s hospitality. But then he changed his mind and accepted it after all. Wine in hand, he strolled over to the window and leant out over the sill. Beleg wondered whether Cirdan was pondering what to say or checking that there was nobody within earshot—maybe it was both? They had met regularly in recent years, but never away from Menegroth, and Beleg had been conscious of a feeling of constraint, as if Cirdan increasingly felt impelled to keep his opinions to himself. Or perhaps it was  Beleg who had no longer felt able to talk freely?

Cirdan took a deep breath of moist night air that almost came out a sigh and turned back towards Beleg and Mablung.

‘I had asked him to wait, you know,’ he said. ‘Well perhaps not precisely that, but I suggested to him strongly that there might be reasons for waiting, for putting off the attack. Not now, not today, of course—this was before…

'And he asked me,' Cirdan said, evidently quoting from memory, 'Fingon asked me: “Wait for what? If you give me a good reason to believe that there’s something worth waiting for, that in a decade or two or three we will have a better chance of holding our own against Angband than we do now, I promise I will consider it. Do you think Thingol will change his mind, if I wait twenty years? Will Orodreth? Cirdan, will waiting do anything for us but give the Dark Foe time to build up his forces again, even more? Do you think Morgoth is so abashed at Luthien’s one, single victory that he has given up his far-reaching plans and is now cowering harmlessly behind his Iron Throne for fear she just might take it into her head to don her bat costume again?"

"And, Cirdan”, he said, “Cirdan, remember how much we have come to depend on mortal allies! I might ask my cousins to delay—although they might in turn argue that we have already delayed too much—but the Edain and Easterlings are a different case. They do not have the life of the Eldar. In twenty years, Hurin, on whose aid I am relying, will be twenty years older. In twenty years, the eastern alliance my cousins established could have fallen apart again, untested…”’

Cirdan’s voice trailed off. He took a mouthful of his wine, as if he was trying to wash down the aftertaste of that conversation. He studied their faces. Did he fear he had said too much? They stood in silence for a moment. We are in unfamiliar territory, thought Beleg, and it has nothing to do with how many days' journey it is from here to Neldoreth. He looked at Mablung. But Mablung was steadily watching Cirdan, waiting for him to continue.

‘I told Fingon, earlier,’ Cirdan said. ‘I’m telling you as well. If things should go wrong—there will be ships waiting. I’ll be sending them up the Firth of Drengist as far as they can go and there will be others waiting off the coast of Nevrast, where the Gate of the Noldor opens out towards the sea.  But they cannot wait for long, those ships! Because you know—if that is what happens, if the need should arise—I will have to look to my own defences. Urgently...’

He drained his beaker.

‘They were good years, you know, in a way’ he said, ‘despite everything. Although I guess Elu might think it disloyal  to my own kindred for me to say so, as they were Kinslayers who helped to keep the orcs from my doorstep.’

He shrugged, walked to the door and stopped there.

‘Forget what I said. In no way am I eating my heart out over these folk! And in any case, of course, I firmly believe we shall win.’

‘We will not say a word to anyone,’ Mablung assured him and Beleg nodded silently in confirmation.

‘May the Belain forgive me,’ said Cirdan. ‘There’s his son awaiting me in Eglarest, young Ereinion—expecting me to bring him news of his father. I’m not sure I know what to tell him! I guess I will tell him nothing at all yet, if I can help it, just hand over his father’s latest letter. And we shall see what the outcome is, soon enough.’

 

***

 

As they were making their way through an intricate series of busy courtyards and down yet another winding passageway back to their own lodgings, Mablung said quietly to his companion: ‘Beleg? I believed I had a fair idea of what we were getting ourselves into, but I’m less sure of myself now…’

‘Yes’, said Beleg, a little vaguely. He was finding it hard to shake off his impressions of their visit with Hurin and Huor. The brothers had recently returned to Eithel Sirion, so Beleg and Mablung had taken the first opportunity to renew the acquaintance and to pass on a message from Gloredhel, their aunt in Brethil. Hurin and Huor had grown to impressive stature, physically and mentally. In itself, that was not unexpected, of course. Beleg had heard reports of Hurin’s great personal valour and also of his leadership qualities that had done much to save the day during the Dark Foe’s last incursion into Hithlum. It was striking, nevertheless, to one who had last laid eyes on Hurin as a mere stripling--and not so long ago, it seemed. The brothers had been brave boys at the time of the Battle of Brethil, certainly, but nevertheless boys, children…

 _In twenty years, Hurin, on whose aid I am relying, will be twenty years older_ , Fingon had said.

Mablung beside him made a small embarrassed sound. Beleg guessed the confession had cost him something to make and he had expected it to receive more attention.

‘Yes,’ he responded again, now fully alert. ‘You can never know what is on the other side of the mountain range till you’ve climbed it, can you?’

‘A bit of ancient wisdom from the Long March, Old One?’ asked Mablung, smiling.

‘Don’t knock the old sayings,’ said Beleg. ‘They are often the true ones. But I’m beginning to wonder whether I should have encouraged you to come.’

‘You encouraged me?’ exclaimed Mablung. ‘It was I who insisted, surely? It was I who went and badgered Thingol!’

‘You were the more vocal, yes,’ said Beleg, nodding. ‘I was the more determined. And I think Elu knew it.’

‘Is that so? Whatever—I don’t regret having insisted, Beleg,’ said Mablung seriously. ‘I may be feeling out of my depth, but I don’t regret being here and I’ll face things as they come. But I’m glad you’re with me. I’m glad I’m not here alone.’

Nobody was watching the strangers from Doriath, Beleg thought. And in any case, why care whether they were watching and what they thought?

He put his hand on Mablung’s shoulder and briefly they leaned together, their foreheads touching, in the darkening passageway.


	3. Eithel Sirion (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beleg encounters the contingent from Nargothrond, including Gwindor.   
> One night, his intervention is called for.

They were quartered near the contingent from Nargothrond. Clearly, in the eyes of the people of Hithlum they had things in common: outsiders, latecomers, and, late as they were, still not as numerous as hoped or needed. They eyed each other with cautious sympathy, the Iathrim and those of Nargothrond.

It should have been more than cautious sympathy, Beleg reflected. Doriath had been a good friend to Nargothrond during its building, after all. But, at the start of the Dagor Bragollach, their friendship had cooled somewhat, although neither side had openly acknowledged it. And, as for Beleg himself, his closest friends in Nargothrond had died together with Finrod in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth: Edrahil and cheerful, knowledgeable Enedrion, who had gone out of his way to make Beleg welcome whenever he visited the place.

Enedrion’s cousin Forgam was among that group from Nargothrond; they had exchanged a few hushed words about the deceased. But Gwindor himself, who seemed to be the appointed leader of the Nargothrond faction, Beleg hardly knew at all nor did he immediately warm to him, now. The man seemed restless, driven, striding about the corridors at a great pace as if he needed to arrive at some destination, quickly, when, for the most part, all they had to do at present was wait for their call to action, as patiently as they could.

Gwindor’s restlessness irritated Beleg, who was having trouble exercising that same patience himself. Gwindor, at least, had the task of watching out for his little troop of Noldor and keeping them in order. Beleg had approached Berion, captain of Fingon’s guard, about assisting with archery training. Berion had promised to consider the best approach and obtain permission from those higher up but he seemed to be taking an unconscionably long time about it.

He ought to have asked Hurin instead, except that the subject had not been uppermost in Beleg’s mind during their encounter—or he could have directly asked Fingon, the king himself. But Fingon, at any rate, was very busy indeed and Beleg had had no chance to speak to him in private; their one attempt to do so had been interrupted straight away. Beleg disliked making any kind of request in front of an audience, no matter how beneficial to both sides, but he would do so the next time the opportunity arose.

These thoughts were in his mind as he descended from the fortress into the town that night on the flimsy pretext of investigating an inn that had been recommended for its strong dwarf ale. Mablung had sensibly gone to bed, but Beleg, itching with temporary inaction and confinement in closed spaces, felt the need to stretch his legs. It was easier to do at night. The streets were almost empty and he advanced without any need to break his stride.

But wasn’t that Berion coming towards him, the man he’d just been thinking of, Fingon’s captain? Judging by his gait, he was not in a mood to discuss archery, however, and the expression on his face, when it came into view more clearly, confirmed it.

‘Berion! Is anything the matter?’

‘Lord Beleg!’

The agitated Noldo stopped. It seemed his first impulse had been to rush on past, giving Beleg a polite brush-off, but something had just occurred to him to change his mind.

‘Lord Beleg, you are a friend of Lord Gwindor’s, aren’t you?’

‘Yes’, said Beleg. It might not be true, precisely, but if Gwindor had managed to get himself into trouble tonight down here, Beleg was quite willing to help get him out of it.

‘Has anything happened to Gwindor?’

‘Not so much happened… Not yet, at least. The owner of the Variegated Thistle sent to me—we know each other—she sent to let me know that Lord Gwindor was drinking heavily in her establishment and he seemed to be in a dangerous mood. I’ve had encounters with Lord Gwindor—I did not trust myself to be able to handle those circumstances, so I was hurrying up to the castle, to fetch some of his friends from Nargothrond… But it will take me some time to find them…’

The oddly-named Variegated Thistle had already been Beleg’s nominal destination, for it was the place that served dwarven ale—the ale that Gwindor apparently had been having too much of.

‘A good plan and I think you should stick to it,’ said Beleg. ‘Ask for Forgam, if you can find him; he knows Gwindor well. Meanwhile I’ll go on to the Thistle and see what I can do.’

‘Thank you, Lord Beleg’, said Berion gratefully and launched himself up the path again.

***

  
Beleg had expected the Variegated Thistle to be rather noisy, in any case, and, after what Berion had said, he thought there might be a great deal of drunken shouting as well, so he began listening for Gwindor’s voice as he turned the corner into Thistle Lane. Instead, the place was quiet—too quiet, he realized as soon as he had opened the door.

The customers seemed to be huddling together at their tables. They briefly glanced up at Beleg as he entered; then they went back to their low-voiced mutterings and the anxious sideways looks they were casting towards the table in the back and its solitary guest. As Beleg went and asked the innkeeper beside her cask for a tankard of dwarven ale, two groups of guests sitting close to the door simultaneously came to a decision, got up and left.

The innkeeper was evidently unhappy, but putting a brave face on it. She smiled cordially at Beleg, greeted him as a new customer, and poured the brown ale with generosity and a satisfyingly professional air. Beleg thanked her politely and strode over to Gwindor’s table, tankard in hand. Behind his back, he heard the innkeeper make a swiftly suppressed sound of alarm or protest.

Gwindor sat silent, with his back to the wall, his elbows on the table. Before and around him, a worryingly large number of empty tankards were arranged in a neat half circle, like one of the parapets on the towers of Eithel Sirion, a fortification against the rest of the world. The latest of the tankards stood a little to the side, three quarters empty. Beleg, accustomed to Gwindor’s restlessness and the irritation it had been causing him, was struck by how uncharacteristically still Gwindor was sitting. However, what was worrying the innkeeper and her guests so much was certainly the expression on Gwindor’s face. To call it a sombre mien would have been a massive understatement.  
  
Beleg, reaching the table, nodded at Gwindor in greeting. That elicited no reaction at all, so Beleg pulled out a chair, sat down opposite Gwindor and waited. The remaining people in the tavern collectively held their breath but, for a very long few moments, nothing happened.

At the other tables, conversation started up again, a little more confident, now that that the feared explosion had not occurred. Beleg himself, continuing to gaze into Gwindor’s rigid face and unseeing eyes, was not similarly heartened. He took a sip of ale and settled in for the wait, wondering whether he should risk trying to get through to Gwindor, here in this public place, before witnesses, and maybe persuading him to leave, or whether he should be grateful for Gwindor’s unmoving silence and content himself with keeping an eye on him until Berion arrived with Forgam. The latter seemed the wiser course.

‘Son of a bitch,’ said Gwindor unexpectedly, startling him.

Beleg was puzzled. Gwindor could hardly mean him, he thought. Not only would the insult have been particularly ill-chosen, in Beleg’s case, but he was fairly sure that Gwindor was not even really aware of his presence.

‘Son of a bitch,’ repeated Gwindor, reached for his tankard and drained it.

‘How he despised us,’ he said heavily. ‘How dare he despise us like that? That speech… That smile… What does he think he’s got that we haven’t? He hasn’t got all that much to be proud of, himself, has he?’

He glared thunderously over the table, his left fist clenching.

‘He’d deserve it but… Why should I let anything that son of a bitch says or does stop me from doing the things I must?’

Suddenly, he seemed to recognize Beleg or at least catch on to the fact that somebody else was sitting there, across from him.

‘I’d have let him win, wouldn’t I, if I’d stayed away because of him? Let him drag me down? I’m not like him!’ he appealed to Beleg.

‘That’s right,’ said Beleg in the most soothing voice he could manage. He was beginning to guess what this was about.

‘I am not,’ said Gwindor, enunciating very clearly, ‘disloyal to the memory of Finrod or his House.’

‘Of course you aren’t,’ said Beleg.

Gwindor gave him a despairing look, then tried to take another swig of ale and discovered that his tankard was now empty. Beleg felt the situation might be about to go critical and was relieved to hear the door open. Hoping for reinforcements, he took his eyes off Gwindor for a moment to check. Yes, it was Berion and Forgam who were coming in, as he had hoped—and with them, to Beleg’s astonishment, was Fingon.

***

Fingon swept towards them, leaving the other two in his wake.

‘Gwindor!’ he said.

The sound of his voice made everyone in the room sit up straight—including, after a moment’s delay, Gwindor himself.

‘What are you doing there, Gwindor?’ said Fingon.

He placed his hand on Gwindor’s shoulder and leant over him, speaking more gently.

‘What are you doing to yourself? I don’t think my cousin Finduilas would be happy to see you in such a state.’

Gwindor’s face changed.

‘Faelivrin’, he said in a choked voice. His passionate anger seemed to go out of him.

Fingon squeezed his shoulder.

‘Come on, Gwindor,’ he said. ‘You’ve had enough. Let Forgam take you back to quarters and sleep it off. Tomorrow will be another day.’

Gwindor tried to get up. As the tension in him evaporated, the effect of the amounts of alcohol he had consumed really seemed to hit. He swayed on his feet. Fingon grabbed him and steadied him. Gwindor looked into his face.

‘Fin… Fingon,’ he stammered. ‘I will fight for you. I will.’ He went on, with increasing urgency, clutching at Fingon’s arm: ‘I’ll slay your enemies for you, Fingon. Just point me in the right direction…’

‘Yes, I know, Gwindor,’ said Fingon, holding him upright. ‘I know. But not tonight—what you need tonight is sleep: a bit of fresh night air, a short walk up to the castle and then sleep, a good long rest.’

Forgam came forward, reaching out. With care, they transferred Gwindor’s weight from Fingon to Forgam. Gwindor leaned heavily against his friend from Nargothrond.

‘Will you two be all right now, on your own?’ asked Fingon, softly. ‘I would go along but I’m not sure that would help to keep him calm, considering…. But Berion could...’

‘We’ll be all right,’ said Forgam, who seemed to be fighting off tears.

They went. Gwindor’s head was bowed now, his face invisible as he shuffled along on Forgam’s arm.

‘Thank you for fetching me, Berion,’ said Fingon.

Berion nodded awkwardly.

‘I’ll have an eye on them for part of the way, as I’m going back to my duties,’ he said, ‘just in case Forgam was being too optimistic…’

He left, too.

Fingon sighed. He regarded the half circle of tankards on the table and gave a slight shudder.

‘I suppose that should serve as a warning to us all,’ he said to Beleg. ‘Nevertheless, after that, I feel I could use a drink.’

He eyed Beleg’s tankard.

‘You appear to have got one already. May I join you?’

Beleg had not had a chance before to have a closer look at him. Silvery lace blossomed delicately on the collar of Fingon’s tunic and the cuffs of his sleeves, his linked belt was decorated with intricate cloisonné enamel and a circlet gleamed in his hair. Even by Noldorin standards, he seemed overdressed for his surroundings—Berion must have caught him just as he came away from some lengthy court function. Fingon’s eyes were shadowed, as if with tiredness.

‘Of course,’ said Beleg. He might have said: _I would be honoured_ , but something stopped him, despite the circlet or because of it.

Fingon nodded. He went to fetch his own drink, while Beleg inched Gwindor’s empty tankards aside towards the end of the table. At the other tables in the inn, conversation resumed. No doubt the guests found much to discuss in what had just passed before their eyes.

Fingon sat down and took a cautious sip of the ale. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Pretty lethal in larger quantities, though, I imagine.’

They sat quietly for a moment. Then Beleg began: ‘Gwindor…’

‘There were three of them,’ began Fingon simultaneously and Beleg fell silent, listening. ‘Gwindor, Gelmir, his brother, and their father Guilin— and they were close. Guilin’s wife, Yavien, had died in a flash flood, helping to evacuate a farmer’s family one spring when Sirion overran its banks—just one of those things, a natural disaster, an accident, nothing to do with Morgoth—and Guilin had been left to bring up his sons alone. I knew them then, before the Siege was broken; I met all three of them repeatedly during my visits to Orodreth in Tol Sirion. Even then, Gwindor and Finduilas were on good terms, although their official betrothal happened later.

Then came the Battle of Sudden Flame. Guilin fell soon after Angrod did—on the eastern shore of Sirion, as he tried to gather the remnants of the troops of the House of Finarfin and organize the retreat towards Tol Sirion. Finrod, coming up with reinforcements, incurred disastrous losses at Serech—although, thanks to Barahir, he escaped with his life, many of his most battle-experienced people fell there. Nevertheless, after that, Tol Sirion held out for two whole years against Morgoth—two whole years, even though they were increasingly exposed on their eastern flank where Gorthaur was busy turning Dorthonion into a place of horror and madness, even though I, being beleaguered myself northwards and eastwards, was able to send little help and Nargothrond not much more than that. Gelmir was lost in a sortie—missing, presumed dead—but Gwindor fought on at Orodreth’s side, quickly gaining a reputation for himself for outstanding skill and courage. However, the strength of the garrison of Tol Sirion dwindled and Gorthaur, being done, for the most part, with the conquest of Dorthonion, came upon them in a great onslaught. In that assault, Tol Sirion fell and even fewer might have escaped downriver to Nargothrond without the aid of Celegorm and Curufin. I have heard a rumour that Curufin himself saved Gwindor’s life in that retreat. No doubt that debt chafes, now, after Finrod’s death, especially if the rumour is true…’

As he spoke, Fingon’s eyes had been lost in memory; now they focussed on Beleg again.

‘I guess you know much of this already,’ he said.

‘Some of it, yes,’ said Beleg.

He remembered the early days of the Dagor Bragollach—how he had hastened towards the Teiglin, gathering his march wardens in readiness and collecting all intelligence he could, and sent message after message to Menegroth, while he gradually came to realize that no matter how bad the news he sent, Elu was not going to permit the march wardens to set foot beyond Doriath’s borders. And so he had waited and gone on gathering intelligence while the North went up in flames and in the Sirion valley, not so far away, Noldor and Sindar, too, had died. In a way, it had been a relief when the forces of Morgoth had ventured into Brethil and were finally within his reach. He and Mablung had inflicted significant losses on them, saved the Haladin from being overrun and barred Morgoth’s way further south. It had been a victory, but an undiluted victory only to those who looked no farther than Brethil.

‘Some of it,’ said Beleg. ‘But maybe less than I should.’

 


	4. Eithel Sirion (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon and Beleg finally get around to having their private conversation.  
> It touches on many subjects, past and present.

 

‘I have considered,’ said Fingon softly to Beleg, ‘whether I should try to reorganize the contingent from Nargothrond—integrate them more closely with my own command structure, even disperse them completely among my own troops. There would be resistance to this, not only on their side. I do not think I have enough time to overcome it.

And I cannot press matters and risk them leaving in high dudgeon because they decide I have offered insult to Gwindor, their hero. Their numbers are small, but the blow to morale would be a disastrous. They have risked much in coming to our aid despite Orodreth’s own refusal and we are all conscious of it.

Besides, if I were to narrow my choice of commanders down to those who have had no harrowing experiences since the Siege broke, I would have few indeed to choose from. There is hardly anyone left among the Noldor who has not lost anyone dear to them. We are none of us now as we were when we first met, you and I.’

He smiled, alluding to their meeting at the Mereth Aderthad, as if at a fond distant memory. Beleg impulsively reached out across the table, not quite touching Fingon’s hand.

He said: ‘What Mablung said, before the assembly in the throne room—about taking part in great deeds…However it sounded to you, I would have you know that Mablung and I are well aware that this is a serious matter—that you are fighting for your lives.’

‘Oh, but we are going to win!’ said Fingon quickly.

‘Of course we are,’ said Beleg even more quickly.

They looked at each other in silence for a moment.

‘I am Sinda,’ Beleg said. ‘I do not write letters.’

Fingon looked startled. Then he nodded, slowly.

‘There are some things even we Noldor do not easily put into writing,’ he said. But his voice held a questioning note.

‘I wish you will consider me a friend,’ Beleg said.

_I am sorry. Your father died. You yourself were in great danger of your life and I did not lift a finger. And, unlike others, I do not have the excuse of being shocked and disgusted at the revelation that you were a kinslayer, for I was not shocked, not truly. I had guessed you carried a secret, although I did not know what it was._

It had been more a feeling of profound embarrassment than of shock, Beleg recalled, as the rumours of the Kinslaying began to reach him and gradually the explanation for that underlying distress he had detected in Fingon at the Mereth Aderthad fell into place—as if he had been made an unwilling witness to Fingon’s shame. In those days, if he could have found a practical reason to go to Barad Eithel—a reason that did not make it look as if he was charging off northwards just to confront Fingon about Olwe and Alqualonde—he would have gone and discreetly communicated that to Fingon that, as far as Beleg was concerned, he had not put himself beyond the pale. But no likely excuse had come his way. He had waited for an opportunity to arise, as if anyone was going to offer it to him on a plate—and ignored how, all the while, the borders of Doriath seemed to be tightening, tightening until there were no casual reasons to leave. And then, suddenly, the Siege was over and he had run out of time.

 _A friend,_ he had said. But what kind of friend dragged his heels until it was almost too late?

Fingon gave him another of those bright Noldorin glances that seemed to make some of the younger Sindar so uncomfortable—but that Beleg had never felt to be the least arrogant or rude in Fingon.

‘Beleg!’ he said. ‘You’re here! Of course you are a friend!’

Beleg frowned a little at that logic.

‘We can do it properly if you wish,’ said Fingon. ‘Wait a bit—I’ll ask the innkeeper if she has any wine…’

And he had bounced to his feet before Beleg could open his mouth. In a moment he was back, carefully balancing two cheap scratched glasses filled to the brim with a clear yellowish liquid.

‘Here,’ he said, passing one to Beleg. He solemnly hooked his right elbow through Beleg’s and raised his glass to him. Beleg thought briefly of what Thingol would say if he could see him drinking friendship with the High King of the Noldor in a tavern. Then he drank unhesitatingly together with Fingon—and discovered there was a reason he’d never been told the place was famed for its wine.

Fingon pulled a slight grimace.

‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. We had better have stuck to the ale.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Beleg judiciously. ‘It’s very high-grade vinegar.’

Fingon laughed.

‘Shall we leave?’ he asked. ‘…unless you wish to stay?’

‘No, this place was merely going to be the excuse for a night-time walk,’ said Beleg, ‘at any rate, until I ran into Berion.’

‘Then let’s walk,’ said Fingon.

 

It made all the difference, walking through Barad Eithel with Fingon. Alone or in Mablung’s company, Beleg had been mainly conscious of sensations of crowding and confinement, cramped by the clustering of elven dwellings where, instinctively, he looked for trees and the tracks of deer.

Fingon made no particular attempt to convince him of the beauty of the place. They did not even discuss the town. All Fingon said was things like: ‘Shall we walk along here?’ or ‘This way?’ But he was so clearly at home—not merely moving along with the confidence of familiarity, but with a pervasive affection for Barad Eithel’s winding streets and windy corners—that Beleg could almost hear the stones talking to Fingon much as the trees talked to him.

It sharpened his own perceptions and even in the dark of the night he began to see how Barad Eithel reflected not only the Noldorin love of stone, but also their encounter with Hithlum and its inhabitants—this arch was purely Noldorin, but those whorls over there, although carved in stone, not wood, showed a distinct Mithrim influence. As far as Beleg could tell, they were gradually making their way to the nearest point of the outworks. On the left side of the road, in particular, the size of the houses was diminishing and the yards and patches of garden were becoming larger.

‘Tell me, Beleg,’ said Fingon, abruptly—and it became clear that he had not simply been basking in the peace of Barad Eithel at night but that his thoughts were continuing along the same lines as before—‘if we should be defeated—but of course we shall win!—will Doriath stand, on its own?’

‘Is that a real question you’re asking me,’ answered Beleg, rather dryly, ‘or merely a message you would like me to convey to Thingol?’

‘Hmm,’ said FIngon thoughtfully. ‘A real question, I think. It might have been a message. After all, Melian’s Girdle has never been tested against the fully assembled power of Morgoth—and I used to wonder...

However—I’ve been to Tol Sirion, Beleg, and seen what Luthien wrought there. I knew much of the building of Minas Tirith when Finrod first devised its walls—no mean achievement, although his works at Nargothrond later outshone it. It was a powerful fortress, Beleg, and no less powerful after Gorthaur beat its defences down with strength and subverted them, turning them against its builders—a place of terror. And Luthien reduced it to rubble in—how long? A couple of hours?

But only because Beren was imprisoned there! If not for him, the rest of Gorthaur’s victims would still be mouldering in his dungeons and his darkness would go on seeping into the soil. Do not misunderstand me—I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth! But I am driven to the conclusion that, apparently, I understand neither the powers of Queen Melian and her daughter nor their limitations… You would know much more of this, I imagine, than I.’

‘Not so much more,’ said Beleg. ‘I have felt Melian’s power all around me and Luthien’s, too. I have admired them, loved them, even—but that is not to say I have understood.’

And, as he spoke, his thoughts were drawn ineluctably to the Wolf, Carcharoth, who had so easily broken through the unbreachable Girdle, both inflamed and empowered by what he carried within him, and wreaked destruction such as Doriath had not seen since the first battle against Morgoth. _And we invited him in. Elu did, when he asked for the Silmaril._

For all his skill as a hunter, Beleg had failed to protect successfully either Elu or his son-in-law when they confronted the Wolf and it was a bitter memory to him. Luthien had died as a consequence, along with Beren—she who had so effortlessly been at the centre of everything that there was no one who was not bereft at her loss. And all for a Silmaril! He remembered Mablung thrusting his hand into Carcharoth’s seared guts, when that grim hunt was over, and the sight of the jewel shining through his blood-stained fingers, dragging Mablung’s arm downwards by its sheer weight, even though it was not such a big thing at all—such a small stone for the fate of Doriath and all Beleriand to hang upon. Nevertheless it had lit up the woods on the banks of the Esgalduin with a light far brighter than the sun at noon.

And they had refused to hand it over, when it was demanded from them—not just Elu himself; most of the Iathrim had agreed. Perhaps they, like Elu, had clung to it as a token, as if any stone, however bright, could ever be an exchange for the loss of Luthien—or as if, because the Silmaril had enabled Carcharoth to reach and attack them, they would be safe if they held it themselves, even though Melian had warned them, not for the first time, that it was not so. Not easy to comprehend were the powers of Melian and neither were the gaps in her defence. But not to any Noldo—not even to Fingon—would Beleg willingly speak of the Silmaril or his fears concerning it.

‘You look troubled,’ said Fingon, touching his shoulder. ‘Do not distress yourself. It was a question I needed to ask, I guess, but perhaps I do not need to know the answer. After all, it will not, in the end, affect my decisions. There are too many of my people that could never find refuge behind the Girdle.’

They passed out through a postern by the city gate and walked on in silence through shadowy fields and pastures until they reached the outworks. There they climbed the steps to the top of the skirting wall.

  
   
Below their feet, Sirion flowed away, turning southwards. Although its source was above, in the citadel, here down at the outworks it was already swift and strong. Beleriand's great river--it served as an inexhaustible water supply for Barad Eithel, but the fortress had also been built to protect it where it was most vulnerable. Ulmo's voice and powers were in the living water, guiding and guarding elves and men. But if none guarded it in their turn from the Dark Lord, that guidance might well fail. Twice already, the enemy had been beaten back from the fortress, with much loss...  
  
Fingon leant over the parapet, looking south.  
  
'You know', he said, 'back then, in Tirion, I used to observe Grandfather and his councillors--my father among them, of course--their established policies, their rules of procedure, their way of running things. And I saw Grandfather make what seemed obvious mistakes: decisions that were unfair or led to a waste of time and effort that was predictable. At any rate, such they appeared to me. Watching how they went about it, I couldn't help but be convinced that, if they had only asked me, I could do better! I could fix things. Tirion would be a much better a place to live in, if only everyone listened to me! I was so very young.  
  
And, of course, when I grew a little older and dared to make a tentative suggestion or two--and I was far bolder inside my own head, than I ever was in court, I assure you!--they told me. Respect your elders, boy, they said--We are the experienced ones. We know how things work around here! This is how things always have been!  
  
Is it strange that I imagined at times how wonderful it would be to start anew? Away from the constraint of 'how things always have been'? Especially when I realized, without even delving too deep into historical research, that, although my elders seemed honestly to believe what they were saying, it was not even true that things had always been exactly like that, even from the founding of Tirion, let alone all the way from Cuivienen? How easy it would be to avoid falling into the same rut, if only I could start with a clean slate! I would learn from Grandfather's mistakes and avoid them all!'  
  
Fingon laughed a little.  
  
'So much overweening pride and such a fall... How very humbly I will have to apologize to Grandfather if I should ever have the chance to do so, won't I?'

Beleg remembered his travels in Hithlum during the Mereth Aderthad and considered what he had observed since his arrival in Barad Eithel, at court and elsewhere. Perfection he had neither expected nor looked for, but it seemed to him no little achievement to hold the fractious Noldor and the wayward Northern Sindar together in a war-torn land and win the loyalty of the proud Men of Dor-lomin. Also, if one thing had stood out, it was Fingon's willingness to take an interest and engage with people as he found them.  
  
'Your Grandfather might be proud of you,' he suggested.  
  
Fingon gave him an incredulous look.  
  
'Finwe as I knew him might,' Beleg amended.  
  
It was still difficult to imagine the Finwe he had known as King in Tirion. The details that had emerged over time didn't seem to fit, making that part of his life in Aman seem more alien rather than less so. Only the end, horrible as it was--Finwe sending the others away to confront the Dark Lord in his Darkness all by himself, at the gate of Formenos--that fitted.  
  
Beleg wondered how much Finwe had told his children and grand-children about some of his more problematic decisions during the March. Hardly anything, it appeared. After all, there was no way you could lead the migration of a whole people all the way across a continent without breaking a few eggs or outright smashing them.  
  
But there was a strange innocence about those who had grown up in Aman, even the kinslayers among them. All those that Beleg had talked to at any length seemed to have an underlying belief, unquestioned despite any adversities that they might encounter, that things were bound to be all right if they only tried hard enough; if things turned out less than perfect, it was because they had made mistakes. Aman must be a strange land indeed to encourage such beliefs; in Middle-earth as Beleg knew it things were bound to go wrong occasionally without anyone having been at fault at all.  
  
'You had been going to tell me about Grandfather, hadn't you? About the march from Cuivienen?' said Fingon and sighed, evidently thinking, again, how far they had come from the time of their first encounter and the Mereth Aderthad.

  
As they began to descend from the top of the wall, Fingon stopped for a moment and looked east. His expression betrayed little, this time, but somehow Beleg did not doubt that he was looking toward Himring with an emotion quite as intense as the longing Beleg had seen on his face at the Mereth Aderthad when Fingon had watched the back of Maedhros’s head disappearing between the tents.  
  
Then the strength of Fingon’s emotion had moved him, but now he found that it bothered and irritated him, as if he had acquired a stake in the matter.  
  
In fact, it was none of his business, of course, but abruptly, he said: ‘Does he even try to deserve your affection, that Feanorion of yours?’  
  
There was a fleeting impression, not of surprise, but extreme guardedness.  
  
Then Fingon said: ‘Russandol—you don't know a great deal about him, do you, Beleg?’  
  
Fingon had, up to that moment, been speaking fluently in the Sindarin of Hithlum, a Mithrim accent with a strong admixture of Falathren loan words, but just with that one word—or name— _Russandol_ he suddenly sounded extremely Noldorin.  
  
‘Hardly anything at all’, said Beleg.  
  
This was not entirely true. As a Marchwarden, he had of course made it his job to find out everything about the Sons of Feanor that might be relevant to the defence of Doriath. He had studiously ignored the rest. It was bad enough, having to turn Feanorian refugees away from the northern borders and send them back into highly dangerous territory with no more than a packet of dried meat or fruit spared from his own provisions, if that—and occasionally having to pull dead bodies out of the swamps on the outskirts of Melian’s Girdle. He could not afford to consider the human side of the Sons of Feanor, although he grudgingly had to concede that they did seem to try to take care of their own, when they could.  
  
‘What?’ he asked now. ‘He’s too high and mighty, your Maedhros, to need to stoop and try to deserve other people’s affection, is that it?’  
  
‘Oh no, not at all,’ said Fingon, sounding genuinely amused. ‘Merely that, with Russandol, that’s entirely the wrong question to ask. But you know so little of him that I couldn’t possibly explain.’  
  
That _possibly_ sounded final; the subject was evidently closed. And maybe, Beleg mused, there was more to Maedhros, son of Feanor, than met the eye. But it still did not seem to be a safe place to keep one’s heart, not at all. However, Fingon was still smiling slightly, as he strode along beside him, and the atmosphere had lightened a little. Whatever things the High King of the Noldor might be feeling doubt about this night, it seemed his cousin was not one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this chapter were first written separately as a birthday ficlet for Oshun and a drabble for Tolkien Weekly.


	5. Eithel Sirion (IV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon and Beleg return from their nocturnal walk to the castle.  
> It is a peaceful scene--nevertheless the stage is now all set for the Fifth Battle...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slightly strange chapter break...
> 
> [Also, this chapter contains a reference to my OC Pengyl, who previously appeared as the (unnamed) narrator of my story 'The "Glory" in "Glorious"'.]

  
They were returning to the castle now. The streets inclined gently but steadily upward. They crossed a square with a fountain, of the more the utilitarian sort where the less well-to-do inhabitants might come in the day-time to draw water or wash clothes. It was of simple, but practical and pleasing design. A group of stone benches was provided for a rest or a chat between chores.  
  
Fingon and Beleg did not sit down there, however, but went on. Fingon's mind seemed to have turned to practical matters.  
  
'You must remind me to put you in touch with Pengyl,' he said.  
  
'Pengyl?'  
  
Berion had mentioned that name, Beleg remembered now, but had not explained and Beleg had failed to ask or to follow it up.  
  
'Pengyl. You have not encountered her yet, have you? She is one of my captains and one our best archers, perhaps the best. She is from below Mount Taras, a Sinda by descent, but my sister trained her in our style of shooting, in Nevrast, and sent her to us at the time of the Dagor Aglareb. When my sister left for Gondolin, she stayed.  
  
I would have expected her to find you before now, to talk archery and compare notes. She's not usually shy. But I guess she's been busy running too many errands and besides--' Fingon gave him a teasing glance--'perhaps that byname "Cuthalion" has had an effect on her...'  
  
Beleg grunted, mildly embarrassed.  
  
Fingon laughed. Then he grew serious again.  
  
'Beleg, did I say how glad I am you came? Let me say it now. For my guess is that it was not made easy for you to obtain leave--although I'm not asking about that either...'  
  
When Elu had finally given them permission, Beleg remembered--long after Haldir had marched from Brethil with the troops of Haladin, so there was no hope of catching up with them and joining them--Mablung had left quickly to gather his belongings and make preparations. But Beleg had remained, caught by the reproach in Elu's gaze.  
  
'You agreed,' said Elu, when Mablung was out of hearing.  
  
'I did, Elu,' said Beleg.  
  
And it was true. He had agreed to the necessity of the Girdle and the policy that went with it, reluctantly but with conviction.  
  
'But I did not foresee', he said, 'what it would do to us.'  
  
_I did not foresee what it would do to me, Elu, to be made to sit and watch and deny help, to guard a border against those in need as much as against the enemy and see the borderlands becoming deadlier to any living being by the day. And I did not foresee what it would do to you, Elu. The Girdle was only ever meant to be a compromise. Do you even remember that now? It does not demonstrate the extent of your power--it shows the limits of your strength. But you have grown too comfortable inside it, Elu. It has become too easy for you to blame those outside for not being within its protection. You have shut your ears and your heart to them, whether they have personally offended you or not._  
  
Perhaps Elu had understood what he was saying. Even if he had, he would not yield now or change. He had felt a coldness in him as he left.  
  
  
'I am glad I came,' he said and took a deep breath.  
  
It was not so oppressive after all, this Noldorin city, quiet under the stars.  
  
They quickened their pace, and taking the more direct route, they were soon climbing up to the citadel.  
  
'I wonder how Forgam has been getting on with Gwindor,' said Fingon. 'Perhaps I should send Berion to ask or check myself? No, I think perhaps that had best be left until tomorrow. Later today that is,' he corrected himself, looking at the sky.  
  
It was long past midnight and the dawn not so very far off. Fingon was looking tired again, even more tired than he had looked before, in the inn. But in the courtyard, at the parting of their ways, he halted, as if reluctant to say good night, searching for words, trying to prolong their conversation.  
  
'You need rest,' said Beleg.  
  
He himself was not weary; if anything, he felt refreshed and more alert than when he had started out.  
  
'Yes,' admitted Fingon, his shoulders sagging a little.  
  
'I will see you tomorrow... That is, today.'  
  
He began to ascend the steps that led towards the royal apartments but, suddenly, he stopped and swung around toward Beleg.  
  
'No, Beleg!' he cried out, but softly in order not to wake anybody. 'Who needs sleep anyway? Who knows when we might have another chance? Sit up with me, please, if you will, now and tell me about the march from Cuivienen, about Grandfather, what you did together and what you saw...'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.  
> And we already know how that goes, but there is a bit more than that to be said.


	6. Serech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How it ends, was always going to end...  
> Beleg and Mablung escape from the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.

They stumbled through the fens of Serech in a manner that would have been shameful for Marchwardens of Doriath if their circumstances had been otherwise. However, Mablung was leaning hard on Beleg's arm, weakened by loss of blood and his wits apparently addled by the poison of the dragon fumes he had inhaled.

It was only one of Glaurung's brood they had encountered on the battle-field, not the great dragon himself. This creature had neither reached its full growth nor were its scales as fully hardened as its sire's, but it was deadly enough even so. Mablung and his company had born the brunt of its attack, until Beleg, off to the side, was lucky enough to get a clear shot at the dragon's left eye. By then, they had been swept apart from Pengyl and her archers and the rest of Fingon's troops. They had tried to fight their way back to join up again, even if it might be with Haldir and the Men of Brethil at the rear. But despite their efforts, each time they tried to regain their bearings after beating off another wave of the enemy, Fingon's banner had been farther and farther away. Orcs poured in between. They lost more ground--and even more of their company--until the last remaining handful was temporarily saved by people of the Fountain from Gondolin who were trying to fall back towards their own main force. Beleg and Mablung were left with no choice but to retreat with them and so, eventually, with Turgon's army. By that time, Mablung had been wounded in the arm and, less severely, in the side.

Beleg and Mablung splashed, knee-deep, into a stinking muddy trough and then out again, slipping and slithering on rotting blades of grass. Beleg had been extraordinarily lucky and was largely unhurt, but he was distracted, his attention divided and drawn away from the tricky task of finding his path through clumps of reed and treacherous water.

He was concerned about Mablung, wondering whether they could afford to stop and check his wounds. Were the bandages he had hastily applied during the brief halt while Turgon was debating his course with the Men of Dor-lomin holding? Mablung was doggedly struggling on, silent, except for heavy, often laboured breathing, but he seemed very disoriented. He was in shock, too, of course. So was Beleg; so would all of those be who survived the battle. It also seemed to Beleg that Mablung might be running a fever. It seemed unlikely for wounds to fester so badly, so quickly, but there was no saying, with wounds taken today. Malice of all kinds had been strong, back out there, on the plain.

But even with all this on his mind, Beleg was listening. His hearing was keen and, despite his exhaustion, fear and grief seemed to have only sharpened it. Immediately around him the fens were deathly silent, as if every living being was terrified, down to the gnats, and the only sound was a soft hissing of reeds and dry grasses in the cooling air. In the distance, towards their right, the shadow of the Ered Wethrin was growing darker.

Behind their backs, some distance away by now, where the main course of the Rivil flowed, was the place they were fleeing from--and a desperate last stand. The Men of Dor-lomin were falling one by one. As he and Mablung fled deeper into the fens, Beleg had heard their battle cries, fewer and fewer, against the enemies' horn calls and drum rolls, the howls of orcs and trolls. And now...

_Aure entuluva!_

Beleg abruptly stopped. Mablung lurched painfully forward and Beleg grabbed him quickly to stop him from falling.

'What is it?' Mablung mumbled.

Beleg did not answer.

_Aure entuluva!_

Beleg was sure it was Hurin's, that last lone voice rising strongly above the enemies' triumph and derision.

_Day shall come again!_

Beleg found himself casting around, trying to think of a safe place where he could hide Mablung and go back...

Once before, he had failed Hurin, when the other was still a boy and he and his brother had been lost on the outskirts of battle, at the Ford of Brithiach. Beleg and his people had spent days searching for the boys, after the battle, but they had vanished without trace and he had had to let their kin, both Halmir and Galdor, know that they were almost certainly dead. But miraculously, Hurin and Huor had turned up again, alive.

Not this time. Huor was surely already dead. Hurin was about to fall, would probably fall before Beleg could get to him, even if he simply dropped Mablung in the mud and went racing back. The Men of Dor-lomin had known that none would survive, a price they had willingly paid for Turgon's escape.

Beleg could not afford to. He could not die in Serech. He had to get Mablung to safety, report to Elu Thingol, bear messages. Even if it filled him with burning shame to hear Hurin crying out and do nothing.

'Beleg?' Mablung asked. Clearly, his hearing was dulled as much as his other senses and he could not hear Hurin calling.

_Aure entuluva! Day shall come again! Aure entuluva!_

Beleg caught Mablung more firmly and went on, as quickly as they could manage it, Hurin's calls echoing in his ears, stepping cautiously, guiding his friend through the mire. The sun poured out red gold across the mountain tops as if it was for the very last time, flashing on the surface of slimy puddles and gilding dead grass. Then, irrevocably, she set.

Beleg listened, listened, waiting for Hurin to call out just one more time, but now there was nothing. Behind them, that lone brave voice had fallen silent.  
They walked on into the dark, into rising wind. There was, for now, no sound of further pursuit or advance behind them, as if this last effort, at the end of six days of battle, had exhausted even their inexhaustible Enemy. Turgon and his army, somewhere ahead and to their left, would probably get clean away, back to Gondolin. Then, at least the sacrifice of the Men of Dor-lomin would not have been in vain.

In the darkest hours of the night, Beleg and Mablung came to an islet, hidden among the rushes, past the point where the marshes of Rivil had gradually merged into the swampy banks of Sirion. They took the advantage of drier, safer ground to allow themselves a short period of rest. Beleg had a look at Mablung's wounds, rebandaged them and gave him a sip from a small flask that Melian had given him before they left Menegroth. Mablung still seemed ill, beyond even the effects of exhaustion and blood loss, but Melian's potion seemed to revive him a little. Beleg fed him a little waybread and wished they could risk a fire.

'Beleg', Mablung suddenly said, clutching the hand that held the waybread, 'do you remember? That morning, Fingon and... _Utulie n'aure! Auta i lome!_ Do you?'

'Yes, well,' replied Beleg numbly, 'we will have to leave that out when we report to Elu, won't we?'

'We what?' said Mablung bewildered, blinking, and after a while: 'You're criticizing Fingon for using Quenya at that moment?'

'Not me,' said Beleg. He had shouted in Quenya along with the rest, when Fingon raised his cry. It was not so long ago, that morning, before Fingon was lost and all the north of Beleriand along with him, but the day that had come was now gone.

Beleg urged a bit more waybread on Mablung and then ordered him to rest. He should have forced himself to rest, too. But when he lay down, he could not lie still and he sat up again.

Messages. He would need to send messages--report to Thingol, of course, and alert the rest of the March Wardens, and by no means only those on the northwest borders, for there was no border even in the South now that would remain entirely safe for long. But he would also have to send messages to Brethil, to Amon Obel--could it really be the case that none of Haldir's Men had survived? But remembering what that hell of a battlefield had been like, he did not doubt that it could. And he would have to send messages to Nargothrond, to Orodreth and to Finduilas. There was no doubt at all that none of Gwindor's men could have escaped, he had glimpsed them being sucked straight into the iron maw of Angband. Cirdan--maybe some of his people had survived, fleeing into Ered Wethrin and were making their way home either by land or by the ships waiting in the Firth of Drengist. He could not be sure of that, he would send messengers to the Havens, too, and hope they arrived there before Morgoth's troops did. And Ossiriand--if things on the eastern front had gone as he guessed, the Green Elves' northern flank would be exposed now, too, although they would probably find out before he could let them know. But he would send messages in any case, because there was no counting on it that anyone else was left to send them.

They would need to be wary. They would need to make plans. They would need to make any plans they could still make. There would not be much that could be done about Hithlum. Maybe Annael's people could still get away.

The sky was getting lighter again, but it was cold. There seemed something wrong with his view of the sky, with the very air around him. Was he just imagining it? Was it because he was still in shock--and so, so tired, after six days of fighting? But no, he was not imagining it. Something had leached out of the light, out of the air, out of the sound of Sirion's waters. A barrier had broken, exposing them to the power of the Enemy. A subtle malice seemed to have invaded the hiss of the reeds. There would come a harsh awakening if any had believed they could stay safe by staying at home.

Beleg gathered up his belongings, packing them in his bag again. His hand encountered metal and he drew out Fingon's brooch, the showy Noldorin thing that Fingon had given him long ago at the Mereth Aderthad so he could travel safely in Hithlum. He had taken it off after that journey and not worn it again. He had never meant to keep it, of course. But it had always seemed to be the wrong moment to return it--conveying a rejection, not the kind of statement he wished to make--and then, after Fingon and he had met again and finally spoken at length, that night in Barad Eithel, he had forgotten about it. Returning it had no longer seemed important, on the scale of things.

Such a bad thing, always, only to find out how much you had cared for someone when you had lost them and could no longer tell them... But Beleg remembered sitting up with Fingon in Barad Eithel, Fingon so tired that he had to prop himself up with his elbows on the table in order to stay upright, but still eagerly, eagerly listening to tales of Cuivienen, and shook himself out of that thought. Much time had been lost, true, that could have been spent in friendship, but Fingon had known he cared, surely he had known.

He took the brooch and put it on. Let Elu make of that what he would. Then he went to rouse Mablung. They needed to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story features two canonical battle cries in Elvish (Quenya): Utulie n'aure! (The day has come!) and Aure entuluva! (Day shall come again!). It also alludes to the fact that the use of the Quenya language had been banned by King Elu Thingol.
> 
> The idea that Beleg and Mablung were saved in the battle by troops from Gondolin is drawn from Rhapsody's excellent story "The last stand", but seems logical and may well have been used by others independently. 
> 
> I have posted an independent version of this chapter elsewhere (on LiveJournal and Many Paths to Tread), entitled "Even So the Reeds Hissed in Serech at Sunset". This title is adapted from canon (later said by Hurin in front of the concealed Gates of Gondolin).


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